


planked on a wet cloud without any breeches

by Gwerfel



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Job, M/M, One Night Stand, Period Typical Attitudes, gratuitous caulking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-18 03:07:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21504187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwerfel/pseuds/Gwerfel
Summary: “Beg your pardon, sir,” he tugged his forelock. It was the caulker’s mate - Hickey, Fitzjames was fairly sure.“Not at all, sailor - caulking, is it? A vital task.” James gave him a friendly smile. Hickey brightened at once, raising his face to address Fitzjames directly.“Yes, sir.” He returned the smile, allowing his gaze to travel slowly upwards, resting on the various parts of James’s uniform, his boots, jacket, epaulettes, before meeting James’ eye with an overfamiliar twinkle - Dundy would call it ‘sauciness’. James was taken aback by the brazen hint of recognition in the look, as though he and Hickey shared some wicked secret between them.
Relationships: Commander James Fitzjames/Cornelius Hickey
Comments: 16
Kudos: 59





	planked on a wet cloud without any breeches

The hail hadn’t seemed worth worrying about when Fitzjames and Des Voeux first set off on the long and icy trek from Erebus to Terror that morning. The snow fell lightly enough at first, and such showers generally passed quickly. 

Sir John was suffering from a head cold and Dr Stanley had advised that he stay below decks, in his own cabin if possible. They had briefly discussed holding the command meeting on Erebus instead, but Sir John preferred to go ahead as planned rather than disrupt things, and so Commander Fitzjames would attend alone.

James didn’t anticipate there being much to discuss on Terror, merely lists to be checked and various readings to confirm. If he was efficient and addressed most of his business to Terror’s subordinate officers then he might avoid too many grim silences from the eternally dour Captain Crozier.

Still, James was grateful for the opportunity to stretch his legs, and to stand under an open sky once more. The ice had been holding them fast for weeks now, and while there was always plenty of work to be done on a ship of some sixty or so men, James had been feeling decidedly restless. He found himself fidgeting during Erebus’ morning briefings, he paced the deck at double-speed for inspections, and at night, alone in his bunk, he was finding it harder and harder to clear his mind and achieve a satisfactorily restful sleep.

Fresh air and a change of scenery had the power to cure any number of ailments, and so he found himself rather looking forward to leaving the comfort of Erebus and crossing the treacherous sea ice to their sister ship. It wasn’t open water, but it was better than being penned in, and with only Mr Des Voeux accompanying him there was still a gloss of adventure to the journey which James hoped would settle his unquiet temperament, at least for a while. 

Unfortunately, as seemed always to be the case on this expedition, the weather turned out to be much worse than first suspected. By the time Fitzjames and Des Voeux were in sight of Terror, her great black hull rearing up out of the frozen waters like a bull making to charge, hailstones as large as cricket balls were thundering down, and brilliant flashes of fork lightning tore at the velvet sky. They were in for a miserable night, and James realised too late that there would be no returning to Erebus that evening. 

They fairly ran the last few yards to the ramp, clutching their hats to their heads and crouching as low as they could as they darted between volleys of icey shot. 

Catching their breath under the dim canvas on deck, they were handed cups of hot rum by the marines on duty. James swallowed his down quickly, letting it warm him before thanking the men and climbing down the hatch into the body of Terror. 

It was no quieter below decks - the hail continued to thump and hammer at the sides of the ship like cannon fire - but it was markedly warmer, so James was both more and less comfortable; a peculiar combination. The stokers had obviously been working hard on Terror, the ice on his boots melted down to a puddle in a matter of seconds. A steward arrived quickly to help him out of his overcoat, his wig, his thick woolen gloves, and he had to rub his hands briskly to prevent them from swelling and itching. As he made his way to the wardroom his eyes adjusted to the change in light, and he spied a man working at the end of the passage way, crouched over the deck.

“Make way for Commander Fitzjames,” Des Voeux barked at the man, who stood to attention at once, backing against the bulkhead.

“Beg your pardon, sir,” he tugged his forelock. It was the caulker’s mate - Hickey, Fitzjames was fairly sure. He had the name of every man in his head, but hadn’t quite matched all the faces, especially of those on Terror. 

“Not at all, sailor - caulking, is it? A vital task.” James gave him a friendly smile. Hickey brightened at once, raising his face to address Fitzjames directly.

“Yes, sir.” He returned the smile, allowing his gaze to travel slowly upwards, resting on the various parts of James’s uniform, his boots, jacket, epaulettes, before meeting James’ eye with an overfamiliar twinkle - Dundy would call it ‘sauciness’. James was taken aback by the brazen hint of recognition in the look, as though he and Hickey shared some wicked secret between them. It unsettled James much more than the continued violent barrage of ice against the hull.

He drew himself back, careful not to respond in kind. “Excellent work, then. Carry on.”

“Thank you, sir,” Hickey gave him a parting glance that was as good as a wink, before turning back to his work.

Overwarm, his hands beginning to ache, Fitzjames consciously realigned his thoughts, straightened, and continued on his way to the wardroom. Perhaps a change of scenery was more trouble than it was worth. 

* * *

The meeting was interminable, as anticipated. Terror’s officers were perfectly conscientious of their duties, ready to present their reports in great detail, but James missed the easy repartee he had with Graham, Dundy - and even Fairholme, when he was in good spirits. In contrast, Little was well meaning and eager to please, but had an expression of perpetual apprehension on his face and panicked when caught off guard by even the most inconsequential remark. Irving had no sense of humour at all, as opposed to Hodgson, who seemed to find everything amusing - a trait which James had always found irritating. The less said about Terror’s captain the better, and indeed he said the least of all.

The hail continued to batter the sides of the ship throughout the meeting, forcing them to raise their voices and even pause for long stretches while they waited for the thunder to abate. Afterwards it was determined that Fitzjames and Mr Des Voeux would have to berth on Terror for the night, and Irving volunteered his own bunk for James’ use, which was a kindness that made James regret his uncharitable thoughts towards the Lieutenant. 

Before supper Little insisted on leading Fitzjames on an inspection of the ship’s steam engines and stores, while the stewards busied themselves preparing Irving’s quarters for James, and Crozier no doubt retired to his cabin for more whisky addled sulking. 

Following an incident of drunkenness early in the expedition from the now deceased Private Braine on Erebus, Sir John had forbidden drinking even at mealtimes, even for the officers. Crozier had felt no need to impose the same restrictions on Terror, and so at least James had a decent bottle of wine to get him through supper. 

Conversation was strange and stilted, and James couldn’t decide if it was the storm or his presence which was causing so much discomfort, but he did his best to allay it either way. Results were mixed.

He thought he might be getting somewhere when Irving mentioned an interest in watercolours, but that turned out to be a dead end too, as James realised that Irving’s 'interest' stretched to little more than a drawing room hobby - pastoral scenery and dull vases of flowers. When James tried to enter into a more general conversation about the arts, he earned a derisive grunt from the captain, who tapped his glass for more whisky as Irving launched into a pious castigation of each one of the old masters, from Michelangelo to Caravaggio. Sinners all, apparently.

James had seen a fair few of those vice-ridden renaissance works for himself, and had a distinct feeling that Irving had not. He amused himself by pondering just how the self-righteous prig might respond if faced with any one of those glorious paintings; all that flesh on display, all those beautiful dark haired boys, their heavy-lidded doe eyes hinting at the very thing which clearly terrified Irving even more than the storm which raged outside.

James had known a young man in Turkey who had been the perfect renaissance beauty; olive skin, lithe limbs and a cool languid gaze. They swam together in azure waters and lay on pure white sand so fine it poured between his fingers like silk... 

He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, catching himself before that train of thought led to more self-indulgent reminiscences. Irving had moved on to the moral pitfalls of reading poetry. James drained his glass, and signalled to be poured another.

* * *

James may not have felt any less agitated when it was finally time to retire to his temporary berth, but he was pleasantly drowsy and muddle-headed from the drink, and so he at least harboured hopes of being able to doze off without any trouble.

Irving’s quarters were as sombre as the man himself, with almost no personal items at all, save for the plain mahogany cross nailed over the head of the bunk, and a few books on the shelf arranged in order of size (not one novel among them; James checked - all prayer books and hymnals). Still, there was a bed and a chamber pot, and so nothing for a sailor to complain about. 

Yawning, he began to undress, folding his clothes neatly away into a drawer which one of the subordinate officer's stewards had emptied for James' use. They had also laid out a clean nightshirt - the initials  _ J.I _ . embroidered on the cuffs - and a wash basin with warm water and soap.

Just as he pulled his shirt over his head, an icy chill blew through the narrow cabin, causing him to shiver. Disconcerted, James turned slowly about himself looking for the source of the draught, holding his hands out before him, sweeping them slowly over the bulkhead. He soon located the problem. The tar in the caulking was crumbling away, leaving gaps as thick as a sixpence in some places. James frowned. Irving must have noticed, especially with the rest of the ship so comfortably warm. Shivering again, he snatched up the nightshirt from the bunk and hurried into it, rubbing his arms to chase away goose pimples.

Irving’s spare nightshirt was good thick calico, but not thick enough to keep away the biting chill whistling through the holes between the planks. James stood still for a moment, half in underclothes and half in trousers, still wearing his boots, and tutted to himself, irritated. He couldn’t very well put up with it.

He slid open his door and poked his head out, wishing more than ever that he was back on Erebus, and that Bridgens was waiting outside, or that Dundy was only a few paces away. Fortunately Jopson happened to be passing with a bottle of whiskey, a white linen napkin from dinner still neatly hung over one arm. 

He paused, seeing Fitzjames. “Anything I can get you, sir?” 

“Yes, Jopson, just the man - I wonder if you could fetch the caulker? Only there’s something of a draught in here.”

“Right away, sir,” Jopson nodded graciously and carried on his way. 

He returned within fifteen minutes, with Mr Hickey, the caulker’s mate James had spoken with earlier, and a glass of warm rum, “From the captain, sir.”

“Thank you,” James accepted the steaming glass, then stood aside to allow Hickey entry, “Just over there, Mr Hickey.” He nodded at the wall at the foot of the bunk.

Hickey crossed the small space, carrying his bucket. He raised his fingers to the caulking, just as James had done, and found the draught. His hands were small and very clean, James noticed, not raw and calloused as one might expect, the fingernails perfectly trimmed into pale pink ovals. He turned to Fitzjames and gave him a pleasant smile, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Won’t take long, sir.”

“Thank you,” James nodded, taking a seat at Irving’s desk chair as Jopson slid the door shut.

Aside from the creaking of the ice and the howling wind, all was quiet for a few moments, almost peaceful. The rest of the ship had begun bedding down for the night. 

He watched Hickey begin preparing for his task, setting down his bucket and withdrawing his tools, his rag, the chisel and pitch. James considered stepping out, but already being half in his night things, he could hardly be seen loitering in the passageway like a lost cabin boy. Besides, what if Hodgson or Little came across him and tried to lure him back into a conversation in the ward room? No, he decided. Best to just stay put until the job was done, then hope that by morning the storm had passed and the path back to Erebus was clear enough.

He found it pleasantly reassuring to watch something so ordinary, so commonplace as caulking. The familiar dry thud of the hammer hitting the chisel as Hickey drove the oakum between the planks, then the pitch, the black hot smell of it filling the small cabin space. The acrid fug was affecting, combined with the wine he’d already consumed. He'd better not have that rum, not until Hickey was gone. 

Feeling his eyelids grow heavy, James searched for something to say to keep from nodding off. 

"This has clearly needed doing for some time," he remarked, "I cannot imagine why Lieutenant Irving hasn't requested your services sooner, Mr Hickey."

"Nor I, sir. I do hope he hasn't been suffering too much."

James frowned slightly. He couldn’t see his face, but there was something sly in the tone. Something smug and knowing, which raised James' guard. He watched Hickey’s back carefully while he finished tarring the boards, and he began to wonder.

“You must be kept busy all over,” he commented, to fill the silence.

“Yes, sir, it's the ice. Pressure pushes the tar back through the planks.”

“And we have you to push it back in again,” James smiled.

“That’s right, sir,” Hickey agreed with a bob of his head. “It’s something like a game. The ice finds our weak parts and presses in, I press back.” 

“A never ending occupation, I imagine.” James said flippantly, stifling a yawn.

“Show me a man satisfied with his station, sir, and I’ll show you a liar - or an idiot.” Hickey chuckled.

That was almost certainly too bold, and James didn’t have the wherewithal to address it, groggy as he was. He opted not to respond at all. Hickey was almost finished, he would leave and James could finally fall into bed.

“There we are, sir. Soon warm up in here now,” Hickey said with another cheerful nod as he began to pack his things away. Once he’d done, his eyes settled on the bowl of hot water left out for James to wash himself before bed. 

“May I, sir?” He said, plunging his dirty hands into the water without waiting for James’ assent.

James blinked, stunned by the audacity of the act as his fresh water turned charcoal grey from the pitch on Hickey’s fingers. It was insolence and disrespect, there was no denying that. It was also the most amusing display James had seen in days. The cheek of it was almost daring. Unsure how to proceed and not wishing to encourage the brigand, he looked down at the deck to gather himself and saw two thick puddles of tar pooling on the wood. Though the room wasn’t quite cold enough to cause it to freeze, it couldn’t be allowed to dry there; tar could be a devil to get out if left to sit too long. Hickey appeared unconcerned, more interested in drying his hands and peering at the contents of Lieutenant Irving's book shelf. 

"Clean up your mess, Mr Hickey." James said, sternly, straightening his back and nodding at the dropped tar.

Hickey looked down, as if surprised, and then knelt to wipe it away at once.

"All done now, sir." He said, looking up from the floor.

"Thank you, Mr Hickey."

He didn’t get up to leave. He remained on his knees on the deck before James, gazing up at him with a sharp grin and bright eyes. 

"Anything else I can do for you, sir?"

He met James’ his eye and cocked his head, the implication perfectly plain. James, now certain of what had only been the vaguest of suspicions, was surprised to find himself intrigued. Perhaps it was the wine, now warm and settled low in his belly, or perhaps just the agitated restlessness of too many dull winters. 

He clearly waited too long to respond, because Mr Hickey got to his feet again, tossing the rag into his bucket and helping himself to the wash basin once more. This time he also removed his jacket, throwing it onto the bed. “Needn’t be anything complicated about it,” he said lightly as he dried his hands again. 

“Mr Hickey,” James cleared his throat, acutely aware of his own pulse, all of a sudden, “are you suggesting--”

“It’s a rough night out there, sir,” Hickey glanced at the bulkhead, and the terrible rattle and clang that the hailstones made against it, the sound of lightning and thunder ripping against the night wind. “Any man might seek a distraction. A 'one off', you might call it. We’re as good as strangers, you and I. It would stay that way.”

“Is that so?”

“It’s only nature, sir,” Hickey gave a noncommittal shrug, as if he could take or leave the crime he was suggesting they commit, but as he did so, he passed his hand over the front of his trousers and very obviously squeezed himself. 

James arranged his expression with care, and let himself look Hickey over, bottom to top. There wasn’t much of him; a small bodied man with pale, pinched features and watery blue-grey eyes. You wouldn’t pick him out in a crowd. 

His hair was fair, long but combed back, as tidy as his pointed beard. Altogether, Mr Hickey was more of a van Eyck than a Caravaggio, but the way he was looking back at James, insolent and desirous, was enough to rouse some interest. Nobody had looked at James like that - or rather, he had not allowed himself to notice anybody looking at him like that - in years. Perhaps it truly was the wine.

James found he didn’t much mind what it was - the evening had already been an anomaly, with nothing as it ought to be. He had spent most of the day suppressing one urge or another, and it had been a very long time indeed since he’d indulged himself in this particular way. He could write it off as a dream, an excusable interlude. 

Perhaps he nodded, or perhaps Hickey just saw the moment of decision in his face, because he stepped forward then, shrugging out of his braces, hands on the buttons of his breeches. 

“What do you prefer?” He said, casually as if he were asking James to decide the evening’s menu. “There’s not much room, but you could put me over the bunk.”

“No - no need for that,” James replied, hoarsely, shaking his head, “as you were.” He nodded to the deck. 

The smile which then spread across Hickey’s face was almost obscene, and as he lowered himself to his knees once again, James could already feel the blood rushing into his loins, that nagging itch he'd had all week now making its home between his legs. 

Advancing, Hickey placed a hands on each of James' knees to pry them further apart, before reaching up underneath Irving's night shirt for the fastenings of his trousers. As he tugged them down, he jerked roughly, pulling James with them part of the way, bringing him down to slouch in the chair. 

Reclining as far as the stiff-backed seat would allow, James knocked back his warm rum and thought briefly how decadent this all was, how he hadn't been this reckless and selfish since he was a midshipman - and then all coherent thought was snatched from him, as Hickey pulled open his under clothes and ran his tongue up the underside of his prick. James threw his head back and gripped the arms of the little desk chair, biting his cheek in an effort not to make a sound as Hickey licked another long slow stripe upwards. With a low hum deep in his throat Hickey closed his lips around the head of James' straining cock, and ducked his head to take the entire length in his mouth.

James considered himself fortunate to have experienced this particular act on a number of occasions, with considerably more beautiful and more passionate partners - but he could not recall ever having had such a determined companion. And as Hickey diligently bobbed his head up and down, this way and that, flattening and curling his tongue by turns, James was inclined to concede that in this particular case, determination was an extremely satisfactory replacement for passion. Hickey was unsparing in his manipulations of James’ most tender parts, employing his hand to stimulate the entire length, allowing it to grow slick with hot saliva which spilled so generously it gathered in the creases of James' thighs. 

Just as James was settling into this assault of sensation, Hickey shifted unexpectedly, swiping two cool fingers through those damp creases, causing James to flinch, opening his eyes finally to look down and see what the fiend was about. Hickey was reaching beneath his thigh now, and though James knew immediately what he had planned, he could hardly believe it, and began to quake with both dread and anticipation as Hickey’s wet fingers reached behind, inching closer.

He ought to have put a stop to it all right there; it had already gone much too far. But Hickey gulped, his tongue swirled, and James knew himself entirely helpless and entirely willing. Hickey's fingers found their mark, and gently but insistently began to stroke and press and coax their way inside. His hands were so slim and so cool, and James groaned at the blunt stab of pleasure as two fingers slid into him. Emboldened by this reaction, Hickey began to thrust his knuckles steadily against that private, secret part of James while savaging his prick with his tongue and lips. Only a few more coarse caresses, and James was done for; his entire body began to clench and sigh at once as he jolted violently into Hickey’s filthy mouth. 

Hickey himself grunted with something like laughter, the thrum of it sending further waves of radiance through James’ middle as he spent his last and slumped back, weak.

Panting, feeling the sweat run down his back in rivulets James groaned a final time as Hickey slowly withdrew his fingers and then leaned back, smirking up at him. In the space of a heartbeat, Hickey stood once more, and without any further care hooked his arms around James’s neck and climbed into his lap, holding him fast between his thighs.

Hickey squirmed, articulating his back and rubbing their bodies together like a feral cat. With one hand he unfastened his own trousers, pawing at himself, and with the other he took James' chin, tilting it back almost tenderly and leaning over him to plant a kiss directly on his mouth.

The shock of this gesture made James gasp, allowing Hickey’s rude tongue entry. The caulker’s mate opened his grinning lips and poured James’ own seed into his mouth. James's instinct was to pull away, but Hickey clicked his tongue officiously and placed his hand firmly over James’s mouth, rocking his hips forward and leaning down to whisper, “Clean up your mess, commander.”

The lewdness of it, of Hickey's vulgar little body writhing against him, and the slick briny taste on his tongue made James stir again, his prick rising as he swallowed. Hickey licked his lips, satisfied, removed his hand and kissed him again. At the same time he took up frigging himself, gathering up the folds of Irving’s nightshirt and wrapping the stiff fabric around his prick, his legs now wound around the back of the chair, so that James had to plant his feet firmly on the deck to stop the wooden legs from scraping and bucking with Hickey’s merciless thrusts. 

When he began to reach his peak, he broke their kiss and buried his face in James' neck, and James was half afraid he would sink his teeth in, but he didn't. He merely muffled a cry against James' shoulder, shuddering and clinging to him tighter than ever. For a moment, James let go of the chair, and held him back, and suddenly felt a terrible longing for something - something which was nothing like this.

Once it was finished, it was finished. Hickey climbed off, dressed and tidied himself. James tried to do the same. It was as he had promised; they were like strangers. He used the wash basin again, of course. He shoved the flannel inside his underclothes and swabbed, he used Irving's comb. He said not a word until he was half out of the door, bucket in hand. 

“Good evening, commander,” Hickey nodded deferentially, tugging his forelock as he backed out of the room. He didn’t bother to close the door behind him, leaving James to lean across and wrench it shut so hard that it slammed against the wood. 

He sat back in his chair, aching, tired and desperate for a good wash. He listened to Hickey's footsteps recede, then pause.

“Evening, Sergeant,” Hickey chirped at the marine posted outside the officer’s cabins, “Will you listen to that thunder?”

"Shut up, Mr Hickey," the marine replied, dryly, "get to your hammock, no one wants any of your nonsense tonight."


End file.
